


The Prince's Part

by Callmesalticidae



Series: There is Nothing to Fear [9]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Hogwarts House Sorting, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Durmstrang Student Harry Potter, Gen, Gryffindor Tom Riddle, Severus Snape Adopts Harry Potter, Severus Snape should not be permitted to tell bedtime stories, casual anti-muggle-born bigotry, walrus mustache of unusual size - WMOUS
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-24
Updated: 2020-09-24
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:07:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26637820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Callmesalticidae/pseuds/Callmesalticidae
Summary: Mr. Prince, of Strandgade 14, Copenhagen, has an uninvited guest in his home. There is nothing to fear. (1991)
Relationships: Harry Potter & Severus Snape, James Potter/Lily Evans Potter
Series: There is Nothing to Fear [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1087368
Comments: 7
Kudos: 80





	The Prince's Part

> Certainly, in taking revenge, a man is but even with his enemy; but in passing it over, he is superior; for it is a prince's part to pardon.
> 
> Francis Bacon

Mr. Prince, of Strandgade 14, was proud to say that he had never stuck his nose into anyone's business, least of all the business of his neighbors, and he appreciated it when they (that is, his neighbors) could extend him the same courtesy. It seemed like there was always something strange going on at his little house: peculiar bangs and flashes from the lower window on the left, or persons exiting his house when everyone up and down the street was quite sure that they had never entered, but so long as you limited any comments to only what was infringing on your daily peace, and you accepted it when he said that such events would stop (and they always did), then he was a good neighbor, if a stern and quiet one.

There were only a few things which anyone really knew about Mr. Prince: He was a Canadian expatriate, though he spoke Danish perfectly fluently and without a hint of accent. His chief source of employment was as a druggist at the corner of Jomfrustien and Tarupvej, but he also, when the mood struck him, taught classes at one university or another, on topics as varied as Introduction to Victorian Flower Language, Trolls in World Mythology, and Applied Domestic Chemistry (which he was happy to admit was just a fancy way to say "cooking"). Most of all, of course, it was known that he had a son, Harry Prince, whom he cared for more deeply than anything else in the whole world.

There were many things which were unknown to his neighbors on Strandgrade, however, and the secrets which he and his son kept were more terrible than anything that his neighbors dreamed of.

* * *

When he was not in the house, Harry could usually find Mr. Prince in one of two places. It was not twilight, which meant that there would be no use in going up to the lawnchair on the roofwalk, so Harry went out to the backyard to find Mr. Prince, as expected, working at the garden. All manner of fruit, herb, and vegetable could be spotted there, from crazyberries to knitbone to pungous onions: the garden was the one indulgence which Mr. Prince permitted himself, and it was almost as important to him as Harry was.

"Severus, there's a Magnus Undheim here to see us," he said, and Mr. Prince paused, his fingers curled tight around the wax potato he was digging out.

"Undheim," he said, then "Magnus. _Norwegian_." He frowned. They were in Denmark, as the muggles labelled things—Copenhagen, specifically—but as far as wizards were concerned they were living in _Norway_ -Denmark, and a Norwegian name was one of two things to take notice of. The other, of course, was that this was Harry’s birthday. “There will be no avoiding it, then,” said Mr. Prince, and he rose to his feet with a pained groan.

Magnus Undheim had already made himself at home when Harry and his father returned, and had the audacity to look impatient. His eyes seemed almost heavy, as though his gaze had weight to it, and he did not appear to like what he saw in their house. Nearly invisible beneath his walrus mustache, a bitter frown took shape. “You _are_ Harry Prince?” he questioned, as if he hoped dearly that he was mistaken, so that he might not have to spend one minute longer in this place. There was nothing strictly wrong with the house, not by Harry’s standards, but the room was lit by bulbs, the refrigerator was humming softly, and both Mr. Prince and Harry were dressed in trousers. Basically, it was all very muggle-like.

“I am,” Harry said. He tried to stand a little straighter, but before Undheim’s stature the attempt only made him feel smaller. Beside him, Mr. Prince gave Undheim a very special look, the sort which he reserved for cockroaches and other people’s children. Though Mr. Prince was a little shorter than Undheim, Harry rather felt that his father had done a good job on the glare. Certainly, Undheim seemed to quail by the smallest of degrees.

“A representative from Durmstrang, I presume,” said Mr. Prince, in a tone that seemed intended to remind the wizard that it was he who was imposing on them and not the other way around.

Undheim nodded. “Professor of Astronomy.”

“Indeed?” Mr. Prince lifted an eyebrow. “The boy has not yet attended. I cannot imagine how he could possibly have gotten into trouble already.” Briefly, he glanced in Harry’s direction, as if to ask whether Harry had merely decided to exceed his expectations, and there was some problem after all.

The other man snorted, but it was derisive rather than amused. “None of his lineage have yet attended Durmstrang. It is customary, in such circumstances, to send a member of the faculty. Perhaps you would know that if you had the barest of magical talent,” said Professor Undheim, though he seemed to have given his best effort to spit the words instead. “I was astonished to learn that you could produce a child that Rector Karkaroff judged worthy of attendance.”

It was a testament to Mr. Prince’s mastery of occlumency that he did not give the slightest reaction to Undheim’s words. Mr. Prince was very talented indeed, at least if Harry was any judge of it, but the two of them had come to Denmark in order to hide, and it was his belief that they were less remarkable as a squib and his son than as an internationally-talented potions master and his son who, on second thought, did not resemble him so very much.

That idea seemed to have occurred to Undheim, in fact. “If, that is, he actually is your son, and not some boy that you stole from a properly magical family in a fit of jealousy. He certainly doesn’t resemble you.”

“He takes after his mother in that way. The boy does have my eyes, at least,” Mr. Prince added, and it was true, after a fashion. Or rather, Mr. Prince had _Harry’s_ eyes, or more accurately a set of bright green contacts that were modeled after them. It was better if they resembled each other in the ways that could be managed, and if Harry went to Durmstrang with colored lenses on his eyes, then somebody would notice eventually. “You may verify it for yourself, if you wish.”

Undheim turned his nose up a fraction of an inch higher than before, but did not press the matter further. Clearly, he believed their story and had no interest in pursuing a line of inquiry that would only eat up his own time. “Well, blood will out, as they say. Perhaps someday we will have more exacting standards than those which have allowed a squib’s spawn to attend.”

“I am sure that Rector Karkaroff will be delighted to hear your opinion on the matter,” drawled Mr. Prince, and Undheim deflated ever so slightly.

“Nevertheless, it remains that circumstances are as they are, and I am here,” Undheim continued, a little snappily, “As your son represents a new lineage at Durmstrang Institute, and as my luck has been extraordinarily poor this season, it falls upon me to enlighten you of certain necessities. First of all, dress warmly,” the man instructed. “Hot-Air Charms are not taught to students, so that you may learn the value of exercising a little initiative. Most students do not learn how to permanently bind the charm to their clothing until their fourth year.” Undheim smirked. “While in this case such measures are clearly unnecessary, I am also required to tell you that all personal belongings will be inspected upon your arrival and any that are found to have been pre-enchanted to provide warmth will be confiscated, not until the end of term but until your _graduation_.”

Undheim paused, then scowled in Mr. Prince’s direction. “Your mother and wife, at least, attended Hogwarts,” he said flatly. “I do not know what they deigned to reveal to you about Hogwarts, or what you managed to pass on to your child, but I have heard of their ‘House’ system, and I must impress upon you that there are none of that school’s petty rivalries between the breeds of Durmstrang.”

“Breeds?” inquired Harry, and for a moment he wondered if perhaps the different pureblood families had their own Houses.

“Durmstrang Institute serves many more students than Hogwarts, even with its admission restrictions, and so, _for organizational purposes only_ ,” Undheim said, as though the mere idea that it was for anything else was some kind of personal insult, “Durmstrang’s noble founder saw fit to divide the students into groups, which she named after her sled-dogs at the time: Bjørn, Holdefort, Neseklok, and so forth. Your placement will be entirely random, I assure you, and have _nothing_ to do with personality traits or any other such nonsense. Neither the quidditch nor släderasspel teams are divided on these lines, either.”

One of Undheim’s hands disappeared briefly into a pocket of his great fur coat. It returned with a folded envelope. “This contains your ticket and a list of necessary supplies. The ticket is good for passage on the _Lögseims_ , the ship that will ferry you to Durmstrang. Do not lose it. The Institute will not look kindly upon such carelessness.” Undheim placed it curtly on the table beside him. “On the eighteenth of August, you must go to the beaches of Stavanger to find your transportation. The ticket will light as you get closer to the place where it will appear and grow dim as you walk in the wrong direction.”

“You can’t tell me exactly where to go?”

“And leave the ship open to attack? Your father may be unable to apparate up and down the beach to help you reach the _Lögseims_ more quickly, but it is no concern of ours if you do not make it. I suggest that you arrive at the stroke of midnight on the Eighteenth, because the ship will depart twenty-four hours from the time that the ticket’s magic has activated.”

Harry looked up at his father, then back at Undheim. Durmstrang was said to be paranoid, but this seemed extreme even so. He glanced at Mr. Prince, then opened the envelope to take a look at the book list.

DURMSTRANG INSTITUTE OF MAGICAL RESEARCH AND LEARNING

Besides the miscellaneous items, like the reminder to bring warm clothing, the supply list was organized by class.

ASTRONOMY

 _Charting the Night_ (Swedish) by Elof Berggren

CHARMS

 _Grammatica Magicae_ (Norwegian) by Ragna Vinter

COUNTERSPELLS

 _Every Spell a Puzzle_ (Norwegian) by Knut Losnedahl

DEFENSE AGAINST THE DARK ARTS

 _Identification and Prevention of Dark Spells and Creatures_ (Swedish) by Elisabet Blom*

*The Norwegian translation by Agathe Gundersen is also permissible.

HISTORY OF MAGIC

 _Scandinavian Sorcery, vol. I: c. 680-1692_ (Norwegian) by Olav Olhauser and Igor Karkaroff*

 _Slavic Sorcery, vol. I: c. 860-1692_ (Norwegian) by Olav Olhauser and Igor Karkaroff*

*The Russian translations by Igor Karkaroff are also permissible.

MAGIZOOLOGY

 _Bestiarum Magicum: Modern Edition with Original Latin Cross-References_ (Norwegian) by Verena the Younger and Mons Andersen (translator)

MARTIAL MAGIC

 _Everyday Self-Defense: Moving Pictures Edition_ (Norwegian) by Ove Solberg

POTIONS

 _Essential Potions_ (Swedish) by Ayo Nylund

PRACTICAL APPLICATIONS OF GERMANIC FUTHARK

 _The New Futhark Handbook_ (Norwegian) by Konrad Olstad

 _The Annotated Edda_ (Norwegian) by Snorri Sturluson and Leana Solheim (translator)

TRANSFIGURATION

 _Essential Transformations_ (Swedish) by Ayo Nylund

“Practical Applications of Germanic Futhark?” Harry read aloud. Mr. Prince had warned him about that one, but it was frustrating enough to keep on top of the other languages he was expected to know.

“Of course. Any product of a proper wizarding family will already know the alphabet, at least.” Undheim grinned. “It is not our problem if yours was deficient. We did not ask you to move here, or to apply to our program.”

Mr. Prince had ensured that Harry was familiar with more than just the letters, but Undheim would probably have found some kind of snide comment to make in reply no matter what Harry said, so he returned to the list to scan it over a second time.

_Under no circumstances are students permitted to bring a cat or kneazle, and they bring cold-blooded animals and small prey animals at the creature’s own peril._

“What about owls?”

"If you wish," answered Undheim, "but letters and packages are only delivered every few months, by ship. You may use an owl to deliver messages to and from Landsbyen, if you wish, but there is also a pack of Vulchanovanshundar in the village. Being of crup stock, they are intelligent and able to make local deliveries in exchange for a treat."

“Who owns them?” Harry asked, not wanting to run afoul of any other rules which Undheim might have neglected to mention.

Professor Undheim raised an eyebrow. “They own themselves, of course. Crups are clever beasts. Do you have any other ridiculous questions?” he asked, and Harry shook his head. “Then I will be leaving. Further inquiries may be made by Floo, if you have access to any powder.”

“If we don’t?”

“Then it was good of you to help us keep Durmstrang free of riffraff, and I thank you. Good day,” he announced with nasty finality, and Undheim raised an arm straight into the air, snapped once, and disapparated where he stood.

Mr. Prince scowled at the bit of air where Undheim had been. Disapparating on the spot like that was, Harry was pretty sure, a deliberately rude act. His father’s mouth opened and shut a few times, and his fingers flexed as if he were trying to grasp the right words to use, but at long last he only sighed and departed to the sitting room. Harry followed him, but only after he fetched a tumbler and the bottle of blackberry whiskey from its place in the cupboard. It was clear that Mr. Prince was descending into one of those moods of his, the sort from which he could never pull himself, only push all the way through to the other side.

By the time that Harry entered, Mr. Prince was half-slouching, half-melting into the ratty armchair where he spent so much of his time indoors. His fingers curled around the tumbler that Harry offered, but his eyes remained fixed on the gold cauldron hanging in their hearth.

He took a slow sip of whiskey. “It was nine inches long, brittle, pine, with a core of dragon heartstring,” Mr. Prince said, as though his wand were gone and not merely stowed away behind some bricks in the cellar, along with a few effects from Harry’s parents that hadn’t been given over yet. “My grandfather’s. He passed away before my mother was disinherited. I am not sure whether she gave it to me for an heirloom or because we were poor.” Mr. Prince took another drink, then refilled his glass with the bottle that Harry passed to him. “I still remember what it was like, casting my first spell.”

Harry took a seat in his rocking chair on the other side of the room, then considered what might really be at work here. It didn’t seem like Mr. Prince to simply complain, and at any rate his real interest was in potion-making, which he was still capable of performing behind...closed doors. Oh. Doors kept things out, didn’t they? But they didn’t keep out apparating wizards.

“You can’t keep making potions,” Harry said upon realizing it, “not if you want to keep your cover as a squib.”

“No,” Mr. Prince said, and he shook his head. “It would be risky to brew under such circumstances.”

Right. And risk was the same thing as certain doom, when it came to Mr. Prince. The man was insane. “Severus, you can’t destroy yourself just to reduce the odds that something bad will happen by another half a percentage point.”

Drink, clink, pour, and drink again. “Your safety is built upon halves of percentage points. Quarters, even.” Mr. Prince gave a heavy sigh. “Your parents named me as your godfather with the expectation that I would lay down my life for your sake if necessary.”

That wasn’t dying. It was living death.“My mother wouldn’t have wanted you to—”

“Your mother,” Severus muttered. “Lily. Did I ever, no, I’m sure that I haven’t…” he said. He looked at the bottle, as though he had nearly committed a great lapse of judgment and the whiskey were to blame. Which, really, might have been true, or at least the second bit. Mr. Prince seemed to come to the same conclusion, because he filled his tumbler again and took another drink, as if his tongue needed a little more loosening. “How your parents died,” he said at last, in a tone which Harry had most often heard during potions lectures.

Harry said nothing, but clasped his hands together and placed them in his lap. There was no telling where this was going to go, except someplace that was going to make Mr. Prince feel bad (and perhaps even worse than that, if it upset Harry and Mr. Prince had an attack of guilt after the wine had worn off). When Mr. Prince was determined to drive himself into black clouds, there was little that Harry knew to do but let him ride it out and be there for him after it was over.

“The most brilliant witch that I ever knew,” Mr. Prince finally said after the silence had stretched out a little more, “and the man who somehow stole her heart.” Knowing Mr. Prince, it was at the same time condemnation and compliment that he didn’t have anything better to say about Harry’s father (his birth father, though Mr. Prince always insisted on _real_ father, every time the matter came up in private) and yet did not describe him in more scathing terms. What Mr. Prince did not say could be as important as what he did, or how.

“James died first,” continued Mr. Prince. “Dumbledore and I kept him alive for a little while, long enough to see your first birthday. He died the next Halloween. His mark burned him alive, like it had been trying to do for a very long time, and, once it had finally caught, the fire could not be put out until his bones had been reduced to ash.”

He turned his gaze to Harry for the first time since this conversation had begun. “Your mother died three months later. I do not…” Mr. Prince bit his lip and looked away once more. “I do not know how, but Riddle found us. The safehouse was no longer secure. McKinnon, Prewett, Crouch… they all died before him. Crouch was the most fortunate—Riddle struck him with only a killing curse. That was most uncharacteristic of him. He liked to make it slow. He used the Entrail-Extracting Curse on Prewett, then strangled McKinnon while Prewett died.”

“With Prewett’s…” Harry began, then he let his words trail off as Mr. Prince nodded slowly in reply.

“Lily told me to take you and run. I thought that it was because I was closer to your room, I thought that she was going to escape as well, I thought that… I thought that she was right behind me, Harry, but she held him off instead. I do not know how she died, or how long it took, or whether she… I want to believe that she did not suffer and that she bought time for us by dueling long and well until Riddle granted her the mercy of a quick death. He has done that before. It is also possible that he did not.”

It was difficult for Harry to find the right way to phrase his question, to make sure that it didn’t give the wrong impression. He didn’t want to sound ungrateful. He didn’t want to sound as though he wished that Mr. Prince had died in place of his mother. And yet, and yet… “Why didn’t she take me?”

“I don’t know,” Mr. Prince replied, in a hollow tone which suggested that he was more haunted by the question than Harry was. “Perhaps because I _was_ closer, and she thought that the extra couple of seconds might make all the difference. Or she felt that she could not ask me to sacrifice myself while she ran, even knowing what my position would have been had she asked me. I will never know. At that point, however, I was positive that Dumbledore would be defeated and when the papers declared this to be true a few months later, it was no surprise. Nor did it matter, as I had made my plans and taken us to Copenhagen only a few days after the attack.”

“You don’t… Severus, we don’t have to talk about this,” said Harry, but Mr. Prince waved it away, his hand still clutching the bottle.

“I am telling you this for a reason, Harry, and it is imperative that you comprehend it. Tom Riddle is the greatest duelist of his generation. He was trained by Filius Flitwick, himself the greatest duelist of _his_ generation. When outnumbered by witches and wizards of high caliber, he has routinely prevailed. Tom Riddle is a monster and he is only sixty-five years old, still in the prime of his life and with years of experience to add to what he already had almost a decade ago when he slew Albus Dumbledore in single combat.”

Mr. Prince turned his attention to the bottle for a moment, perhaps considering whether to have more. “We came to Norway-Denmark, and I faked the paperwork to claim that you were my son and Eileen Prince’s grandson, so that you could attend Durmstrang, the premier school in the world for martial magic—not so that you could beat him, but so that you could hold Riddle at bay if he ever pursued you. And it is for this same reason that I cannot risk being discovered as a fully-capable wizard. If you are to survive then you must be given every half, quarter, and one-tenth advantage that I can hand to you. I cannot tell you why Riddle would care that you are alive, not now, not until you are a more proficient occlumens, but if he were to discover your existence then he would raise Atlantis from the depths and bring Heaven crashing down in order to seize you. As much as I would like to say otherwise, your only hope of living out a natural life lies in escaping his notice.”

And maybe Mr. Prince believed that. Maybe it was even true. But there were more important things than what Mr. Prince talked about.

Like what Mr. Prince had done, and still did, for Harry, who did not have one real father and one who was fake, as Mr. Prince was inclined to believe, but two fathers who were equally real, one who had given him a head of dark hair and what everyone assured him were some dashed good looks, and one who had given him a childhood.

Harry did not call Mr. Prince "father" except when it was necessary to maintain appearances, because it pained the man to be described in such a way, but Harry refrained because he cared for Mr. Prince and not because the word was false.

Mr. Prince could have been right in his evaluation, but it didn't change what Harry thought, either: It was no way for Mr. Prince to live, hiding his magic and giving up even potion-making in order to keep Harry just a little bit safer. That was an act which might have to be kept up for decades to come. As paranoid as he was, Mr. Prince might never make another potion for as long as Harry was potentially in danger.

Which meant, of course, that Tom Riddle needed to die, if not by Harry’s hand then by someone else’s, for Mr. Prince could not really live while that dark wizard survived.

**Author's Note:**

> I settled on giving Snape a taste for blackberry whiskey after googling for far too long to see what kind of alcohol he might like (and pondering for even longer whether he would even drink alcohol in the first place), but the blackberry whiskey is ultimately inspired by the suggestions which I found rather than directly lifted from any of them. His drink of choice in previous drafts of this story were “celery-and-beetroot wine” (a canonical drink, though we know only that Gilderoy Lockhart doesn’t like it, and not what any other characters else think of it) and “rum with black pepper.”
> 
> Bestiarum Magicum is canonical but we don’t know anything about it. The book’s author is original, as are all other books on Harry’s list. “Grammatica Magicae” is an awful pun, because (1) grammar can refer to the fundamentals of a subject or a book on the same, from which we get the term “grimoire,” and (2) magic in Harry Potter has a fair amount to do with language. You may assume that the book covers the linguistic quality of magic in more depth than Harry’s canonical school books did.
> 
> Norway-Denmark is one of several wizarding countries in Durmstrang’s sphere of influence. Others include Sweden (which includes the upper Baltic countries and half of Finland), Russia (which includes the other half of Finland), Rzeczpospolita Polska (roughly analogous to the Poland-Lithuanian Commonwealth), and the Wizarding Roman Republic, which is not Roman and not quite a Republic but is, at least, Wizarding.
> 
> Lögseims means “sea-thread,” and is a kenning for Jormungandr. The 18th of August, 1991, is a Monday, for those who care to know.
> 
> **Durmstrang and its founder, Nerida Vulchanova**
> 
> [Go here](https://forums.spacebattles.com/threads/there-is-nothing-to-fear-harry-potter-au-gryffindor-voldemort.667057/page-7#post-68694313) for that, because it's too long for this section. 
> 
> **Credits**
> 
> Being transported to Durmstrang by ship comes from [this novelty ticket](https://www.legendaryletters.com/store/Scandinavian-Wizarding-School-Boat-Ticket-p65473684).
> 
> Snape’s wand is based on the thoughts from [this Quora answer](https://www.quora.com/What-is-Severus-Snapes-wand-made-of/answer/Cat-Churchwood). I chose pine as his wand wood partly because it fit Snape’s character but also because I found it funny to give him a wand which, according to Ollivander, is for “owners who are destined for long lives,” when in canon Snape died of too much snake.


End file.
